


golden

by quinziggle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, M A N I A (Album)
Genre: Cuddling and bedsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, I'm not a total edgelord, M/M, Nightmares, Slightly delirious Pete, light body worship (you have to squint), m a n i a references, mental health, patrick is a literal cherub, pete is a sap and kind of creepy, sappy 2nd chapter, slight self harm mention, slight timeline slips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-16 17:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9281465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinziggle/pseuds/quinziggle
Summary: When Patrick next spoke, Pete thought he'd imagined it, and ignored it, because it was exactly the kind of thing his wishful thinking would summon. He was persistent though; softly carding a hand through Pete's hair, slicked to his forehead with a mix of sweat and grease, he repeated himself. "Can I come and lie next to you?" Pete found himself nodding desperately, choking out a quiet, "Please."





	1. blue/red/blue/red/blue/red/blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [live_and_let_live](https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_and_let_live/gifts).



> *vomits feelings and thoughts onto paper* ta-da!

Drenched in sweat, he slips in and out of consciousness, eyes prickly with unshed tears. The pillow traps him in a cage of heat, pulling him down into the depths of his own dark dreams. The truth is he is no longer resisting the night terrors, he needs to rest; he has not slept properly for weeks and it shows, hiding in the dark patches beneath his eyes and the exhaustion painted across the canvas of his face. Of course, it was even more draining pretending to be upbeat around his bandmates, but he did it to protect them, although if the worried looks he saw them exchanging meant anything, they probably weren't convinced.

As the convulsing blackness inside his brain threatens to swallow him, he is woken by his own choked cries. Across the room he hears someone shifting in their bunk and tries to still his frantic breathing. He succeeds; if for only a few seconds, until he is betrayed by a rush of terror which erupts from his throat in the form of a loud hiccuping sob. Someone -- no, not just someone, _Patrick_ \-- says his name, alarmed. In the darkness, this is a blessing, and he reaches towards the voice, twisting himself over as he fumbles desperately for a more comforting reality. The soft padding footsteps and creaking of a mattress fill his hollow heart with something that makes him feel... not _okay_ , exactly, but warmer at least. "Hey, Pete, _Pete_ ," There was that voice again. Sweeter than any candy he'd ever tasted, and more welcoming than jerking off in a piping hot shower after a long day. He found himself saying so aloud, and if the flustered silence the confession provoked was anything to go by, he'd probably made Patrick uncomfortable. 

An age passed as he listened to the steady rhythm -- inhale, exhale, in, out -- of his bandmate's breathing. Even the way he breathed was melodic; Pete wondered if there was any part of him that wasn't musical, perhaps his veins leaked liquid gold chords when cut open. Pete's certainly didn't; he knew that for sure. Maybe that's what was different about them. Patrick was an angel, sent to watch over him. Or not. No one was sending any guardian angels, especially not for Pete Wentz. When Patrick next spoke, Pete thought he'd imagined it, and ignored it, because it was exactly the kind of thing his wishful thinking would summon. He was persistent though; softly carding a hand through Pete's hair, slicked to his forehead with a mix of sweat and grease, he repeated himself. "Can I come and lie next to you?" Pete found himself nodding desperately, choking out a quiet, "Please." 

The small mattress creaked as his bandmate climbed in beside him, and he couldn't help but pull him as close as possible, drinking in as much of the comfort his friend's presence provided, and drawing in a careful, shuddering breath, trying to concentrate on the softness of Patrick's arms around him, the heat of his body and the way his hair tickled against his cheek ever so slightly.  
Anything was better than giving in to the flurry of unkindnesses behind his eyes, but focusing on Patrick was the best kind of distraction. No. Patrick went one step further. The fire he lent to Pete's heart was slowly pushing away the shadows. Presently he became aware of a melody tricking into his brain, dispelling the horrors. Patrick -- singing _his_ words, voice thick with concern -- and planting both gentle kisses, and seeds of swirling affection into his skin. For once the words were no longer a desperate paper plea, but a focused audible art, banishing his darkest days, and taking up arms against the daggers rooted deep in his head and heart. Pete wept, encased in the embrace of an angel, falling weightless into the first forgiving slumber in months.


	2. purple

Waking up feeling _safe_ , enveloped in a pair of arms, soft as clouds and gently warm from the sun's rays, was the kind of dream he was allowed only once in a blue moon.  
There was a surging feeling of doubt in the pit of his stomach, dark waves of worry in the form of a pocket sized Charybdis inside him; perhaps he was still dreaming. Good things didn't often grace him with their presence so obviously, not when lurking pain came as second nature. 

Opening an eye blessed him with the sight of Patrick splayed out beside him: alabaster limbs loosely holding him, pale and delicate, but strong enough to hold their own. His bedmate's cheeks were flushed with soft pink and the spill of sandy eyelashes against his cheek made Pete long for a photographic memory, in order to capture the moment and preserve it eternally. Words could not do him justice. He looked simply angelic. 

Silently, his hands made their way back to their favourite perch, the flow of soft, soft flesh where waist met hip. Mere touches of Patrick's skin in such a vulnerable, trusting state felt like a form of spiritual awakening, banishing the lingering unsure feeling from his very cells.  
Perhaps he was being overdramatic, but when wasn't he? Treasuring this was important.  
Good things didn't often last, he needed to remember this before manic impulsiveness returned to lend a rosy tint to his world. 

This was where things were in balance. A perfect shade of purple to paint a picture of hope. 

Patrick was all the unconditional kindness and stability he had never had any luck with expressing for himself. He was a white knight, when he was feeling chivalrous, Pete his queen; offering her beloved champion a favour to charge into battle with. Together, they could beat back the sunset and live in the light a little longer.


End file.
